


And Hast Thou Slain

by jenna_thorn



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-13
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-10-11 19:05:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/115890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenna_thorn/pseuds/jenna_thorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh frabjous day, calloo, callay</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Hast Thou Slain

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the first movie came out, so this is not Jason Isaacs' Malfoy

Arthur meets them at the door, the cane in his hand no obstacle to  
throwing his arms around his son, hopelessly tangling his immobilized  
wrist in Granger's sleeve, generally making a blockade of ginger hair  
and patched tweed in the only entrance until his squawking wife flaps  
her hands, shooing children like chickens into the parlor. Sentence  
fragments escape her herding, "needed a bit of patching up…", "the  
kettle on…".

I have made myself a dark shadow in the corner, becoming one with the  
dust that Molly cannot quite banish. I watch as they flow around one  
another, jostling like penned sheep. No, these are not sheep. The  
slaughtered lambs are elsewhere. And even those lambs had teeth,  
fangs, venom. We are all wolves, licking our wounds. There are no  
innocents here. The children are children no more.

 _"How can you possibly …"_

"Oh what do you expect? Am I Gryffindor? To be throwing myself at  
hoops in fevered pursuit of a toy? Some first year groveling for House  
Points? I have better things to do, Severus. My question is, do you?"

He pressed my own hand on my crotch, too hard to be anything but  
aggressive and I felt myself blush. His answering grin was a challenge  
and I stepped closer, forcing him to chose between backing away or  
grinding our trapped hands against his own hips. Lucius never backed  
away. His grin turned predatory as he slid beyond my shocked sight,  
turned that aristocratic profile, that decadent mouth into the hollow  
behind my ear and whispered, "I lead."

And I followed him, followed his steps to hidden rooms, my clothing  
followed his to the floor, my hands followed his over his chest, my  
belly, our cocks. I followed him willingly.

"Not so pretty at the end, covered in mud like us mere mortals."

Molly clucks at the boy. "You are *all* covered in mud" she mutters as  
she wipes free another random limb for bandaging. I cannot determine  
what method she is using for triage, perhaps simple proximity. I have  
not been asked for help and I am content not to volunteer.

Granger speaks up, "I suppose we proved the difference between mud and  
blood." Eyes glance toward me, but she is mesmerized by the slow  
trickle from her own wounds. An etched burn, with contact dermatitis  
at the edges. One of the aspro family of curses, probably. I'd have to  
examine it to be sure. Molly throws a white powder over it, and my diagnosis is   
confirmed. The powder floats downward, most of it settling on  
robes, shoes, smears of mud and blood and grass. Very little of it  
reaches the floor.

 _His hands twisted in the sheets. I would willingly have had him  
twist so in my hair, pull me to him, clutch and cling. I would have  
welcomed any loss of his iron-clad control, relished the sting of  
scratches from manicured hands. I kept my nails trimmed short to keep  
from breaking, my hands scrubbed red raw. I refused to be what I was,  
slightly stale, slightly stained. We were men, young men, but men and  
we thought the world was spread before us like a banquet._

Lucius was used to this bounty, expected it, not I. But I fought to  
keep it, fought to keep him, fought to keep what I thought we had,  
what we were, a pure partnership, working shoulder to shoulder in the  
daylight and by candlelight, an inflammatory love. Each generation  
thinks it has invented passion, but oh, I believed with all my own  
black heart that we were unique, meant to be together, my olive skin  
against his porcelain, suited in height, in shape, in desire, in  
temperament. He shone on me and I reflected that beauty. Together we  
would stand behind the Dark Lord; together we would conquer the world.

But what I know now, what I was too brash, too proud, quite simply too  
young to know then…I was always alone. Even as our limbs tangled in  
fervent kisses, even as he crawled, leonine beauty and ethereal grace  
over me, even as I lost coherence, babbling disconnected syllables as  
he drank me down, even as he sank into me with a stuttering pull,  
sheened with our commingled sweat … at no point did he need me.

"You've got him, then."  
"Harry, are you…?"  
"Leave him be, Bill."  
"I'll get you a …"  
"No, thank you."  
"Why, Harry," Molly says through a forced smile, "you don't even know  
what I was going after."  
"I…I'm sorry, Mrs. Weasley. I'm just tired."

The child looks old. Not sagging, not flyaway grey at the temples, not  
sallow, simply old. He's killed a man, more than one today, I should  
think. He glances up at me, then quickly down. I do not think he sees  
my returning nod.

He expects anger from me, but the child has done today what I could  
not bring myself to do. I cannot hate him for that. For everything  
else, yes .. for his birth, his conception, his adulation, his eyes,  
yes. But I forgive him this murder. He will never know why.

I hear one of the twins nattering in the kitchen, recounting the tale.  
He cannot see Potter flinch. "You should have seen him. He was  
everywhere; that hair of his makes quite the target."

 _Slim pale hands wound through my dark hair, tugged, not quite  
painfully, until I faced the mirror, saw us framed, shadow in front of  
light. "You should grow your hair long."_

"Why?" I asked as his hands came around my waist, as beautiful as the  
rest of him was. "It just hangs in my face."

"That's because you stoop over that cauldron all day," he said as one  
hand slid lower, encircled me, pulled up with the ease of long  
practice and I could not help myself as I turned away from the mirror,  
away from my own image, turned to face him.

He tried to re-position us, so he could watch, we could watch, his  
hands lazily stroking me, the flush spreading, but I leaned into him.  
He said, "I like to watch us."

"I want to see you," I replied.

His mocking laugh echoes through two decades of futile wishes and  
deliberate, careful, conscious, studied lack of regrets. No, he has  
reaped the fruit of his choice and I …I will live with mine. He grew  
fat with an emaciated wife and a petulant son. And I am old and bitter  
and stopped wearing gloves and when it hangs low and in my way, I cut  
my hair with a knife. But I remember the taste of his sweat, the sound  
of his voice, the humming tension before he would shudder and sigh and  
smile at me. Even today, watching his killer, dwelling in the lair of  
his enemies, I can close my eyes and see that sleepy, sated smile.


End file.
